For Every Failing Sun
by Aesteraa
Summary: He's still a stranger to me, just one that knows all of my secrets. Maybe even the ones I keep locked away from myself.
1. Prologue

Bright fluorescent overwhelms us. An empty room, save for a wooden chair placed right in the middle. No files or documents stacked to the ceilings. It takes a moment for me to realize what this meant. Sherlock seems fascinated, eyes darting around the bright room as if there are answers hidden between the walls.

This is bad. He's tricked us. There are no hardcopies or physical documentation regarding Mary's past. No leverage to obliterate. And yet, here we are, Mycroft's laptop in tow, all ready to hand over the country's most confidential data to a power hungry blackmailer for a shot at my wife's freedom.

It was a trap all along. He's still talking but I can't hear a word. Sherlock listens intently, looking extraordinarily calm despite the situation. He probably has something up his sleeve. He always does. Some elaborate plan that'll solve everything in an instant. That mad bastard.

He's walking towards me. What could he possibly want now? His long, pale fingers are an inch away from my face. He flicks at my cheek, giggling like he's on drugs.

"Keep your eyes open for me, Doctor Watson."

A flick to my temple. What's he playing at? Is he really that sick in the head? Sherlock's got my gun stashed in his coat. I shut my eyes. He switches his focus, fingernails grazing the sensitive skin of my eyelids.

"Maybe I'll leak it on the web. Just for the fun of it." His voice is low and mocking. My fingers curl into a fist. "Rumors spread quickly these days, with social media and all. I wonder what the world would make of Mrs. Watson's filthy past. Everyone will pity the poor sod that was thick enough to marry her."

I want to kill him. In a few seconds, my hands will be on his throat, squeezing the life out of him. It won't take any longer than a minute and a half. Maybe I'll draw it out. A bullet to the brain is too quick. An act of kindness, in fact, for the monster that he is.

"Augustus."

It's her voice. No, I'm imagining things. Probably still delirious with rage. I turn to the side and time stops.

In that moment, I'm not even sure who she is anymore. There is an aura of darkness surrounding her, ghosts of her past in her eyes. I told her that I forgave her, but I'm not sure if I do. They were just words rolling off my tongue. Empty promises. I don't want a marriage built on lies.

But I love her. God help me, I do. She's behind him, reaching into her coat pocket for her gun. He sees my gaze shift and he turns, sadistic grin stretching wider, eyes glinting as he watches her approach.

"Why if it isn't Mrs. Watson." He speaks like he can barely contain himself. "We were just talking about you."

"Let them go, Augustus." She says, her tone frigid. "You have everything on me. You don't need them."

"That's where you're wrong. I don't need _you_. Not when I've got John Watson. The one person binds me to Sherlock and Mycroft Holmes. The dynamic duo that fell right into my lap, trying to sell state secrets." He tuts, shaking his head. "I own you both now."

He shoves me to the ground, ramming his foot into the small of my back. I can hear Sherlock reaching for my gun, forcing Magnussen to draw his own.

No. This can't be happening. She's throwing herself right into the path of the hurricane. And for what? To prove to me that she's different from the person was before? I know that. And I don't care. I burned the thumb drive, watched as the flames devoured her past. She's carrying our child-

"They don't deserve this. I won't see my husband jailed for the rest of his life."

"Mary!" I scream. My throat is dry but I need to get the words out. "Get out of here! He's got a gun!"

"I'm tired of running." My words don't register. Her eyes are glazed over, unfocused. "Appledore doesn't exist. As long as you're alive, I'll be living in fear."

She squeezes the trigger, and a gunshot pierces the air. I wait for the thud of Magnussen's body hitting the ground but it doesn't come. I force my head up to look at Mary. She looks bewildered, fingers trailing down her abdomen, where crimson had started to seep through the fabric of her shirt.

A memory surfaces. An argument we had a few weeks before Christmas. I had been staying over at Baker Street for three days straight, poring over research on Appledore.

 _Why do you need me when you've got him?_

I couldn't think of a response in that moment. I told her afterwards that she gave me things that Sherlock couldn't. She didn't seem convinced. I wasn't either.

Our eyes meet for a split second, her face is a mask of serenity, like she knew what was going to happen. I don't understand it. She can't do this to me. Everything we had been through would have all been for nothing.

Those first few months after Sherlock had…jumped. I can't go back there. The world was grey and she brought the colors back. I can't lose her. I won't-

In my peripheral vision, I see her body crumple to the ground. A noise that sounds like something between a shout and sob leaves my mouth, and Magnussen's foot digs harder into my back.

A sharp piece of metal connects with the back of my head, sending a searing pain shooting through my skull. Bile rises in my throat as the whole world swings before my eyes.

Somewhere behind me I hear footsteps shuffling and a second gunshot sounds. A body collapses on top of me, steel framed glasses clattering onto the ground.

My body feels frozen so I stare at the pair of glasses. It's strange, I can't remember whom it belongs to. It's only been a few minutes, hasn't it? My vision is fading fast, tears stinging the back of my eyes.

A dark figure stumbles to my side. I hear frantic voices calling my name. The sound of propellers slicing through the air. A pale face leans in close to me, blue eyes shining bright amidst the rising chaos.

It's the last thing I see before the darkness swallows me whole.

* * *

A/N: This is the prologue for a multi-chaptered fic that takes place after His Last Vow. As season 4 is right on the horizon, i'm going to wait for a bit before posting the later chapters as they may be some areas in the canon storyline i would like to parallel in this fic, with the absence of Mary's character. As always, reviews will be greatly appreciated and i am also looking for a new beta reader for this fic. PM me if you're up for it and thanks for reading!


	2. Chapter 1: Strangers

Chapter 1: Strangers

I wake to dim surroundings. The curtains are drawn, and I can barely make out the silhouettes of the furniture around me. The sheets under me are soft and clean, freshly laundered. I stumble a few times as I struggle to get to my feet, crossing over to the windows to yank open the curtains.

An unfamiliar street.

I turn around, scanning the room for any semblance of familiarity. Something blooms within the deep recesses of my brain. I focus on it, pulling the thread towards me. It disappears before I can get a hold on it, like it wasn't even there to begin with.

There's a throbbing pain in my head. I walk over to the mirror to inspect my reflection. Thick white bandages wrapped tight around my forehead, extending to the back of my skull. There are bruises on the bridge of my nose, molted green and purple spilling onto the side of my cheek.

The cold truth hits me like a bucket of ice water over the head. I've been kidnapped.

Wait, no. That's not possible. I'm in my pajamas. My gun is in my bedside drawer. No kidnapper worth his salt would leave his hostage with a weapon.

This is my home. But I don't know what lies beyond this door. A surge of panic blossoms within me. I can go out to have a look. I don't have any reason to panic.

I close my eyes, trying to recall the events leading up to my current situation. But my mind's a blank. What did I do yesterday? Where was I? I don't remember.

I remember my name. John Hamish Watson. I'm thirty-eight this year. I was an army doctor involved in the Afghanistan war. I came back to London because I couldn't imagine living anywhere else. My limp was killing me. The therapist I was seeing couldn't find a cure for it. She had me taking pills. Xanax, mostly. It knocked me out every night before ten. I was living in a tiny bedsit in Addiscombe on a pension. It wasn't half bad; it offered a quick commute to central London. I had plans to start working at St. Bart's again.

A simple life. That was what I wanted.

But it was so dull. I was filled to the brim with the sort of boredom that would make anyone want to scream. The memory of that is still etched into my very core.

My phone is lying on the bedside table. I switch it on. The date flashes before my eyes.

 _4 October 2016, Monday_

My blood turns to ice. I arrived in London in 2011. Five years worth of memories down the drain. I eye the wooden door. I get a strange inkling that the source to my answers lie just a few feet away.

There is a knock on the door. Two soft, polite raps. A killer would have just barged in.

"Come in." I call out. I'm curious. Maybe this person can fill in some of the gaps. The door opens, and a tall man steps in. I'm stunned for a moment. He looks almost ethereal, skin so pale that it's almost translucent and a mop of black hair partially obscuring bright blue eyes.

"How are you feeling?" He seems uncertain, eyes downcast like he's guilty of something. The words are on the tip of my tongue, but I've forgotten how to articulate them.

"Fine. Better, I suppose." I clear my throat. Who is this man? Is he a doctor? My flat mate? A lover? No, that's not possible. I'm not gay. I would have remembered if my sexual preferences had evolved to something more fluid than before.

"John, I've spoken with the neurosurgeon at the hospital a couple of times and it appears that there's nothing much they can do for now." He pauses, waiting for my reaction. I nod, assuming that he's referring to my memory loss. "Some damage may have been done to your medial temporal lobe resulting in a lapse of episodic memory."

He stops again, eyes darting across my face in search of some form of response. I keep my expression blank. He's testing me, trying to figure out the extent of the damage. It feels like a challenge somehow.

"I'm sure I'll be fine after a few days of bed rest." I sit down on the edge of my bed, plumping up my pillows and offering him a small smile.

His gaze doesn't waver. I can't fool him. He hasn't dropped any hints on our relationship. He's waiting for me to slip up. I probably won't be able to keep this up for long. Might as well be straightforward.

"I'm sorry. But who are you?"

He takes a step back, steadying himself against the doorframe. His pale skin has taken on a sickly pallor, a sheen of perspiration forming on his brow. Damn. I shouldn't have said that. He's my friend. Was my friend. We're living together, for God's sake.

I know what he's thinking. Years of shared moments lost in oblivion. Every inside joke, every hug. Whispered secrets before dawn. No, I'm making this up. I'm not even sure what we are to each other yet.

He recovers quickly; I've got to give him credit for that. When I look at him again, his mask is back on, stoic and unreadable.

"We're flat mates. We met at St. Bart's about five years back when I was looking for a cohabitant for this apartment." He fiddles with his gloves. I notice that he's wearing a coat, made of some expensive looking corduroy material. "I'm a consulting detective for Scotland Yard and you've been helping me with some of the cases I've taken on."

A detective? I didn't expect that. But it seems to suit him. He's arrogant, speaking with a cool indifference that suggests an innate superiority. It's a stretch to picture myself by his side, running through the streets of London hollering about clues and killers. I can't see it. Murders and mayhem, they belonged to the movies, didn't they? I'm not one for excitement. I've had enough to last a lifetime.

"So we've been living together for five years?" I inquire. Five years is a long time to be living with someone in a completely platonic way without any complications. An abundance of time for memories to build up. For feelings to-

I've got to stop thinking about this. I'm desperate to ask him about the nature of our relationship. But it's too soon. And I'll probably need some time to figure out how to phrase that.

He hesitates. "Yes. That's about right."

This is awkward. There are probably things he doesn't want to talk about. I shouldn't pry any further until I get a read on him. He's still a stranger to me, one that knows all of my secrets. Maybe even ones I keep tucked away from myself.

I'm starving. I can't remember the last time I ate. My stomach's grumbling, it's getting embarrassing. I should really go downstairs to make myself some breakfast.

"I've prepared some light breakfast for you, just toast and eggs. I wasn't sure what you wanted." He seemed relieved to have an excuse to leave. "I'll bring it to you."

With that, he slips out the door, leaving a crack as he lopes downstairs.

He seems almost apologetic, scuttling around and making me food. Did we have some sort of row? That would explain a lot. It was probably some kind of domestic squabble. I don't want to think about the possibility that it might have something to do with his occupation.

He's back again just a few minutes later, balancing a tray of hardboiled eggs, toast and tea in careful hands. I eat slowly, savoring the simplicity of a home cooked meal. Is this a regular affair between us? Bringing the other breakfast in bed?

He watches me intently. "I suppose you shouldn't strain yourself for the next few days. We need you back in perfect health as soon as possible."

"I'll do my best." I don't know what else to say.

"You have an appointment at St. Bart's in the afternoon. I'll be at the morgue if you need me." He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a phone. He fiddles with it for a second and there's a chime from the drawer next to me. "I've sent you a list of contacts you might need. Your old phone was damaged beyond repair in the accident."

I scroll through the list of contacts. The names all seem unfamiliar. I scan the list for his name and realize that I haven't asked him about it.

"I'm sorry, but I didn't quite catch your name."

He keeps his eyes fixed on his screen. "Sherlock Holmes. It's a pleasure to have you back, John."

He walks out of my room a little too quickly, slamming the door behind him with a little more force than necessary.

* * *

The route to the neurological department took a little longer than expected. It's quite unnerving, really, walking around a hospital alone. I'm already sick of the scent of disinfectant. The receptionist is scribbling away on her notepad, cross checking appointments on her desktop computer. I'm the only one in the waiting room. Brain injuries aren't all that common. Just my luck.

There are several newspapers and magazines splayed on the table in front of me. I spend a few minutes flicking through them. So much has changed. But in other ways, things are still are still pretty much the same. The stock markets are still unpredictable and politicians are still playing dirty. That's the funny thing about time, I suppose. The world keeps turning even if you're not there to see it.

Except I was. Five years of wasted time. I wonder if I'm still the same person.

The receptionist calls my name, jolting me out of my stupor. I make my way to the doctor's office. She introduces herself as Dr. Brelle, the surgeon in charge of my operation. She takes me through the effects of retrograde amnesia and does a few tests. It's hard to admit that I have no recollection of my life before the accident. I remember the heat and bloodshed. The sand in my mouth. After that, it's just a blank wall. A white, immovable force that I need to break through.

I can see the sympathy on her face. I don't want her pity. I want to know what happened.

She tenses up when I ask her about the details of my injury, using complex medical jargon to try and shake me off. She doesn't realize that I was a doctor before all of this. I know exactly what she's talking about.

"Retrograde amnesia is often temporally graded, meaning that remote memories are more easily accessible than events occurring just prior to the trauma."

"So does that mean I can speed up the healing process by recalling the events leading up the accident?"

She regards me silently. It's a long shot, I know. She doesn't want to give me any false hope. "Starting at the beginning would be best. Accessing the brain's narrative function would help with piecing together the flow of events in a way makes the most sense to you."

My heart skips a beat. This may be a lot easier than I thought.

"Exposing yourself to significant events from the past associated to the cause of injury may speed the rate of recall."

I realize what I have to do. In order to move forward, I'm going to have to go back to the start.


	3. Chapter 2: Between The Lines

A/N: The excerpt from John's blog is taken from .uk. For the purpose of the narrative, assume that the entries following _A New Beginning_ have been deleted by Sherlock.

The watery dawn filters through the curtains, casting strange patterns on the wooden floorboards. It's freezing in my room, even though I've turned the radiator up a couple of times through the night. The jolly time of the year when temperature plummets to below zero after midnight, the misty chill bleeding into the early hours of the morning.

I dress quickly, rooting through the closet for something practical. There are an awful lot of sweaters bunched up at the back. I'm not one for fashion. It's ridiculous that I'm making such an effort to find an outfit that my forgotten self would wear. I settle for a plaid shirt and jeans.

I make my way downstairs, clutching the banister tightly for support. My limp is gone. The pills I used to take on a daily basis are nowhere in sight. I haven't needed them for years. The dreams must have somehow subsided.

The flat is nice, I suppose. Vintage and classy, practically dripping with personality. The wallpaper has started to peel, ravaged by bullet holes, a garishly yellow smiley face right next to it. I suppose there's a story there too. There are slivers of what appears to be human skin on the chopping board, right next to a microscope. But there are also tea bags and biscuits. Chocolate ovaltines, my personal favorite. The whole setup feels like a puzzle of some sort, my mundane normalcy intertwined with his feverish brilliance. Was that how the world saw us? The brilliant detective and his bumbling sidekick? I'd like to think that I was more than that.

There are eggs and milk in the fridge. I can make omelettes, maybe fry up some bacon. Sherlock isn't up yet. It's still early. I'll surprise him with breakfast, to return yesterday's favor. There's nothing weird about that. We're flat mates. We take turns doing the chores.

He barrels down the stairs at around half past nine, fully dressed and shrugging on his coat.

"Just tea for me. Nothing solid." He takes a slurp from the cup I placed in front of him and snatches today's paper from out of my hands. "Just got off the phone with Lestrade. Staged suicide near Westminster."

He's distracted, flipping through the headlines, searching for some obscure article buried beneath the attention grabbers.

"Who's Lestrade?" I remember his name from the list of contacts. He's a cop of some sort, I think.

He doesn't miss a beat. "The Detective Inspector of Scotland Yard. Completely hopeless, but at least his dignity has degraded to a state where he doesn't think twice about asking for help. Makes things a lot easier."

"They ring you up for every case?" I've always held Scotland Yard in high regard. It never occurred to me that they were open to receiving external help. Especially from someone without a license or proper qualifications.

"No, only the ones that they find themselves at a loss with. Which is, coincidentally, almost every case."

I laugh. I can't help it. It's absurd. I've never met anyone quite like him. So carelessly arrogant yet so unaware of it. He seems surprised by my reaction, the faintest of smiles pulling at his lips.

"Don't hold back much, do you?"

"No, not really." A full-blown grin. It's hard to ignore the crinkles forming at the side of his eyes. "Tact is the deadly spawn of human sentiment, something I do not bother concerning myself with."

"What _do_ you concern yourself with?" A little too direct, perhaps. I can't help it. I'm intrigued. I guess I shouldn't have licked my lips.

He turns to meet my gaze, and suddenly the air goes frigid. "My work is all that matters to me, John. I've said this a thousand times, but considering the circumstances, it seems like I am going to have to repeat it for a thousand more."

Five bloody years of this. It's no wonder I ran off and gave myself an irreversible head injury. It dawns on me that this is the perfect opportunity to slip in the question that's been plaguing me since I woke up.

"And I assume you had something to do with said circumstances?"

He looks pained, jaw tightening as he rolls up the paper. "We were on a case. Matters went awry, you were used as bait. He had a gun-"

Jesus. I don't want any more details. That doesn't sound all that different from Afghanistan. What the hell was I thinking, leaving one warzone only to hurl myself headfirst right back into the fray at the first given opportunity?

"But I killed him, John." He says almost desperately. "He's gone."

There's more to the story. I can sense it. I'm just not ready to hear it. Not just yet. I'll be retracing my steps, which will get me nowhere. I need to follow the timeline chronologically if I'm ever going to reclaim what I've lost.

"Right well, there's that then." I lean back into my chair and take a sip of tea. It's an effort to appear nonchalant, with my cup clattering against the saucer. "I suggest we put that all behind us and focus on moving forward."

"Of course. I'd like that."

He clears his throat. "But aside from that, your companionship so far has been…pleasant."

Is this an apology for what he said earlier? I have no idea. I need some time alone to figure things out.

He tries again. "John, I know this is difficult-"

"It's almost eleven. You'd best be off. Every minute counts, doesn't it?"

He's hesitant, picking at a loose thread on his trousers. "I could use some assistance."

"Oh, I don't think I'll be much of a help." I gesture to my bandages. "But I'm sure I'll be up for it a few days from now."

He nods, somewhat dejectedly, and ducks out with a final swish of his coat. I stare after his retreating form, trying not to linger on the slope of his shoulders and the way the keeps to one side of the corridor instead of walking in the middle. As if the cramped space was built for two.

XXXX

There's a laptop stashed under the couch. It's an old model. Dusty, stiff keys. There are two accounts listed on the home page, mine along with a guest account. It's passcode locked. I don't even remember owning a laptop, much less the password of my account. I just have to think. I'm fairly obvious when it comes to these things. My birthday? No. Harry's birthday? Not that either.

Sherlock seems like the type who would snoop around in my personal belongings just for the hell of it. Some part of me hopes that I didn't incorporate any part of his name. Stay away, Sherlock? Denied. Sod off Sherlock you prying git? Bingo. I bite my lip to suppress a smirk as the desktop loads.

There are several word documents filed away on the side of the screen, followed by a web link on the bottom. I click on one. _A Study In Pink_ , the title reads. I scan through the wall of text. It's a write up for a case from 2011. I'm the one who wrote it, without a shadow of a doubt. There's my signature dry wit and flowery narrative threaded through the facts. I wince when I get to a particularly lengthy segment on my first encounter with Sherlock. A weird sense of dejá vu creeps over me. I read the words over and over again, mouthing them so I can feel the syllables rolling off my tongue. _Brilliant. Genius. Inhuman._

I click on another entry. _The Speckled Blonde_. I'm almost done with it before I realize what's bugging me. I was happy. Ecstatic, in fact, filled to the brim with the kind of ecstasy that makes everything else fade into the background. There are thousands of comments and I can see why. The real story's the one hidden between the lines.

Was I infatuated with him? Was that what it was? It certainly reads that way. I suppose that it's rare that I'm getting an outsider's perspective own work. I don't feel any residual emotions swirling inside me. My memories may be gone but surely my body would have a reaction to the close proximity we shared just a moment ago. Muscle memory. I should pay closer attention during our next conversation for any signs. Sweaty palms. Labored breathing. God, talking is always out of the question, isn't it?

I scroll down to an entry titled _A New Beginning_. I start reading and the words send a shiver down my spine.

 _I understand that he's dead. And I accept it. I still believe in him. In who he was. The truth behind that will come out, I believe that. But Sherlock is dead and that period of my life is behind me._

It's the last post of 2012. But somehow he's back. Alive and well, the last time I checked. What else did he neglect to tell me?

There's a knock on the door and an elderly lady toddles in, a tray of tea and biscuits in her hands. Sherlock did mention something about a landlady.

"Feeling any better, dear?" she asks, putting the tray down on the coffee table.

"Yes, thank you."

She eyes at my screen, the web browser still displaying my blog. "You boys haven't taken any new clients for almost a month. I was beginning to think that Sherlock had finally decided to move on to something more, you know, proper."

"Oh, I don't think so. As a matter of fact, he's working on a case as we speak."

"He never could sit still, that one." Her tone is affectionate, despite her words. I wonder if Sherlock had briefed her about the extent of my injury beforehand. I hope not. Not before I glean some valuable information out of her.

"It's just so nice to have the both of you living together again. Those two years were the hardest of my life and mind you, my late husband got into several huge scuffles with the cartel."

Two years. He had better have a good reason for it.

"He's quite a handful." I let out an awkward chuckle. "But someone's got to look after him."

"You've done more than your fair share of that, love. Sometimes I think you sacrifice too much for him."

Is she alluding to something that happened in the years after he faked his death? I can't risk asking her about it, not if I have to break through any firewalls Sherlock undoubtedly planted in her.

"You should talk to someone, love." Her eyes are glistening with a mixture of sadness and sympathy, so pure and honest that I have look away. "I'm sure there are many nice ladies out there who would kill to have a shot with you."

"Oh, not till I'm back on my feet they won't."

"There are other people out there, John. You've got to open your heart to them. He isn't the only one for you."

She's distressed, hands wringing at a damp washcloth. Her words feel weighted somehow, slipping between my ribs and twining their way around my heartstrings. My face is getting uncomfortably warm. I hope she doesn't notice.

"Sherlock and I…we're not-," I'm spluttering. I need to get it together. "It's not like that. It's never been like that."

She doesn't look convinced. I don't blame her. It's hard to feign conviction when you don't know the truth.

"John, I'm so sorry." She hesitates. "About your… loss."

Suspicions confirmed. I'm not surprised. He doesn't seem like the sort who would overlook any loose cannons. Especially if he's hiding something.

"It's no big deal. These things happen. The doctors are saying that being in a familiar setting will help escalate the recollection process."

"I'm glad to hear that, dear, but some things are better left in the past." She squeezes my shoulder tightly, before making her way back downstairs.


End file.
